


Piqued

by Delancey654



Category: Devil's Cub - Georgette Heyer
Genre: Card Games, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 19:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5510582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delancey654/pseuds/Delancey654
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary and Dominic play a friendly game of cards on the road to Paris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Piqued

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ancarett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancarett/gifts), [avani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avani/gifts).



> A treat for Yuletide 2015!
> 
> The italicized paragraph in the beginning is from Devil's Cub. In a game of piquet, 'carte blanche' refers to throwing in a poor hand, which is a different meaning than in Georgette Heyer's novels.

His cousin Juliana's voice was shrill: _“You let me be jolted and bumped till the teeth rattled in my head. You thrust me into your odious chaise as though I were a mere piece of baggage, and you have not the civility to stay with me.”_

_“I never drive when I can ride,” said his lordship indifferently._

_“I make no doubt at all that had I been Mary Challoner you would have been glad enough to have borne me company!”_

_The Marquis was snuffing one of the candles, but he looked up at that, and there was a glint in his eye. “That, my dear, is quite another matter,” he said._

* * *

Dominic Alastair, the Marquis of Vidal, dismounted with less than his usual grace, gritting his teeth against a fresh stab of pain in his left arm as his boots hit the ground. Surreptitiously, he felt his sleeve to make sure the wound had not broken out bleeding again on the road from Dieppe to Rouen, and cursed audibly when he saw that Timms, alighting from the coach carrying the party’s baggage, had observed this.

The valet even now was approaching across the yard, his expression a mixture of concern and trepidation. “My lord,” he said, with the air of a man taking his life into his hands, “this is a quite tolerable inn and the weather seems to be worsening. If your lordship is fatigued, I could bespeak rooms for the evening.”

“Devil take you, Timms! We’ve already been waylaid at Dieppe for two nights, and even travelling with you and a petticoat there is no reason why we cannot reach Rouen today.”

Mr. Timms was moved to expostulate out of concern for his lordship’s health, but quickly gave way when Vidal snarled at him, bowing himself woodenly out of the way as the Marquis strode into the posting-house.

His temper was not improved as he entered the inn’s pleasant private parlor and discovered Fletcher engaged in a low-voiced colloquy with the petticoat, Mary Challoner. The phrase, “Madame, if you could prevail upon his lordship . . . ,” came to his ears. Miss Challoner, having perceived his lordship on the threshold and with a fiery expression in his eyes, vouchsafed no response.

“Out!” Vidal snapped at his majordomo, making his way to the table where Miss Challoner sat and where Fletcher had deposited a laden tray. Vidal poured himself a glass of wine, speculating as to what tactics she would employ. Somewhat to his surprise, she took a direct approach. “My lord,” she said quietly, handing him a sandwich, “Mr. Fletcher has expressed some worry that your arm is paining you. Rather than aggravating the wound, would you consent to stop traveling for the day?”

“No, my dear, I do not consent,"  
Dominic told her. "It is the merest scratch, as I’ve told you, and we stop here only for refreshment and to change horses. Would you care for some wine or a sandwich?”

Miss Challoner shook her head. “I thank you, but I am content with lemonade and some fruit.” With sardonic amusement, the Marquis wondered if she had selected an apple as a convenient excuse for keeping a sharp paring knife close at hand. With ample reason, the lady mistrusted him.

Miss Challoner persisted, meeting his eyes calmly as he stood over here. “I know you insist that it is the merest scratch, but I feel it is my duty to keep it from once more becoming inflamed. It would be best if we could stay here for the night, rather than risk having you laid up on the road for several days if it worsens.”

“It’s my risk to run, Madame. Have done.” Vidal slouched into the chair next to hers and applied himself to his food and drink, refilling his glass.

“As you will, my lord.” Miss Challoner shrugged and changed the subject to ask him about the sights of Rouen.

Some minutes later, Vidal realized he had underestimated her. As Fletcher entered the room to remove the covers, she tried a slightly different approach. “My lord,” she asked, “would you be so obliging as to bear me company until we reach Rouen?

He answered swiftly in the negative. “I never drive when I can ride.”

“I quite understand,” she answered frankly. “It is extremely tedious to be driven for miles and miles in a chaise by oneself.”

Vidal heard the slightest note of wistful entreaty in her voice, and saw the reproachful look of his watching henchman, but he remained unmoved even though his arm was hurting damnably.

What did change his mind was the realization that the clever Miss Challoner had perhaps outmaneuvered herself. Vidal acquiesced, therefore, with only a hint of the malicious enjoyment he felt in his voice. “My dear, I had no notion you were so desirous of my company. But of course I am willing to relieve the tedium of your journey.”

As she flushed at the drawling tone of his voice, he continued: “But my acceptance is conditional, dear Mary. While we are in the carriage, you must call me Dominic.”

Relieved at so unobjectionable a condition, she agreed to this with the merest hint of a smile. “Since I know it vexes you so much to be addressed with formality, my lord, I will consent to call you by your given name when we travel together.”

Amused at both her admission and precise interpretation, the Marquis escorted her out to the waiting carriage and handed her inside. As she took her place in the far corner, facing the rear of the coach, she thanked him prettily, carefully adhering to the letter of their agreement: “Thank you, Dominic.”

He swung himself into the coach and sat in the corner opposite her, negligently stretching his long legs in front of him, his highly polished boots mere inches from the side of her not very voluminous skirts. “My pleasure, Mary.”

Miss Challoner realized that his lordship’s well-sprung traveling carriage, which had seemed so commodious when she was the only passenger, had inexplicably grown much smaller with the presence of the volatile Marquis. As he watched consternation flicker across her face at his proximity, he smiled impishly at her. “My poor, dear Mary. Are you now regretting allowing Fletcher to importune you into requesting my company until we reach Rouen?”

“Not at all, my lor - Dominic.” She corrected herself and continued with slight irony. “I merely wanted to be certain that you had made yourself quite comfortable.”

He provided that assurance with a grin. “Quite. But there is no need for you to be uncomfortable. Haven’t I informed you that my intentions are honorable?”

“Certainly,” she replied, tucking her feet closer to the seat, “although you have also cautioned me that you seldom live up to your better intentions.”

Vidal’s good humor was unimpaired by the rejoinder. “I am delighted to find that you pay such close attention to my warnings, Mary. You will make an admirable wife.” As she continued to watch him warily, he reached into his coat pocket and handed her one of his pistols. “Here, take this as a surety for my good intentions.” She hesitated for a moment and then took the weapon, gingerly placing it in the holster next to her.

As the carriage lurched forward and turned onto the pike road, Mary again sought a neutral topic. “Have you often visited France, Dominic?”

He smiled and accepted the conversational gambit, discussing several previous visits in the company of his charming mother and formidable father. Mary was a good and careful listener and gleaned more from his lordship’s anecdotes than he intended to reveal. Realizing this, he then broke off, asking abruptly, “What of you? Have you always lived in London?”

“My parents always had a house there, but I spent most of my summers in Buckinghamshire and several years at a seminary. It is only for the last two years that I have lived solely in London.”

“Did you use to visit with your grandfather each summer?” Dominic asked.

“And grandmother,” Mary amended.

“My poor girl!” Dominic exclaimed feelingly.

“Whatever do you mean?” Mary asked, much surprised.

“The last time I met your grandfather, he chastised me as a scrubby schoolboy unable to sit a horse and told me my hunter was a bag of bones, fit only for dog meat.”

“Oh, well,” Mary said excusingly, “that is only to be expected in a retired cavalry officer.”

“And then,” Vidal continued, his eyes darkening at the memory, “he threatened to thrash me across the downs with his crop, only because my horse stumbled into his.”

Mary’s eyes shone silver with amusement. “Did you try to beat him to a jump?” she inquired.

“Why, yes,” Dominic admitted.

“Then you are fortunate he merely threatened!”

“And you wonder why I express my condolences as to your time in Buckinghamshire!”

Mary laughed at his expression. “Oh, Grandpapa was always most kind to me. But of course, unlike yourself, I never gave him cause for reprimand. And I believe,” she added thoughtfully, “if you met him while hunting at Avon, he would have been particularly irascible since Grandmama would not have accompanied him.”

“Why is that?” his lordship asked.

“Oh, Grandmama always had a soothing effect on his temper.”

“She must be a remarkable woman to manage that trick. But you misunderstand me - why would your grandmother not have accompanied him to Avon? My parents are famed for their house parties.”

“She did not care to hunt.”

Vidal narrowed his eyes. “That’s not an answer to my question, my dear. Many wives prefer not to hunt but still visit Avon.”

Mary colored slightly, but this time she answered directly. “My grandmother, sir, was very strait-laced. Due to an unfortunate contretemps involving one of her young relatives, she made it clear to my grandfather that while she would not interfere with his long-standing friendship with the duke, she would not spend so much as a minute under Avon's roof.”

At this, Dominic whistled softly. “What will she say to our marriage?”

“Nothing, sir. She died some two years ago.” Mary looked away, refusing to meet his eyes. She paused momentarily, and then continued composedly, with her gaze firmly fixed on the passing countryside. “At the time, my grandfather wished me to come and live with him. I declined, because I did not wish to cut all connection with my mother and sister as he demanded. I have not spoken with my grandfather since, so you need not concern yourself with my family.”

Dominic eyed her profile thoughtfully as Mary lapsed into silence. After a few minutes, he decided to provoke her out of her pensive mood. “Well, my dear,” his lordship began suggestively, “with conversation at a momentary standstill, I can think of a few ways to pass the time with my affianced wife – ”

Mary interrupted smoothly, refusing to be drawn. “And you wanted to know if I would indulge you a game of cards? I should be delighted, Dominic.”

He grinned at her quick evasion. “Do you play piquet?”

“Tolerably well,” she replied.

“Excellent,” said his lordship. She sat very still but did not give any ground as he casually reached across her to retrieve a pack of cards from an adjacent compartment.

"What stakes shall we play for?” Vidal inquired, as he settled back into his seat.

Mary answered him honestly. “My purse is too slim at the moment to engage in gambling, sir.”

Dominic’s eyes gleamed. “And it would be most improper for me to offer to stake you, would it not?” At her emphatic nod, he chuckled. “Well, my dear, if you cannot play for money, we shall play for love.”

Mary replied in a cool voice. “Shall we say a penny per hundred, then?”

Dominic shook his head dismissively. “No, my dear, I am not interested in playing for nursery stakes.” Looking at her flushed countenance, he relented slightly. “Make it sixpence per hundred and I shall be content.”

He noticed Mary’s almost imperceptible hesitation as she calculated her resources before assenting to even this modest wager, and mentally resolved, as he began to deal out the cards, to ensure her losses were not too heavy.

He quickly realized his chivalrous intentions would not be put to the test. Dominic was not much surprised to find that Mary was an intelligent and level-headed player, but he was impressed by her shrewd discards and impeccable strategy, as well as slightly taken aback by her almost uncanny ability to discern when he was bluffing. To make matters worse, Miss Challoner was enjoying an excellent run of luck, while the cards he was dealing to himself were execrable.

After looking through his latest hand, he swore at the cards, but they remained unchanged. Mary glanced up from her own cards with an engaging smile. “Rolled up, Dominic?” she asked.

He smiled back despite himself. “Happily, the stakes are low enough that I may yet avoid the spunging house.” Having suffered through innumerable painful games of cards partnered with young ladies who could barely discern a club from a spade, he was moved to ask, in a slightly accusatory tone, “You never learned to play piquet at school, did you?”

Mary gave him a deceptively demure look and confirmed his suspicion. “Of course not. Grandpapa taught me, from a very young age.” General Challoner was one of the few people with whom the Duke of Avon, who was as ruthless in cards as everything else, enjoyed playing piquet with, as well as against.

Vidal shook his head in mock dismay. “I am increasingly convinced the old man is my nemesis.”

“Indeed? I’m not certain what they taught you at Eton, but I always understood Nemesis to be a female.” With a quick smile, Mary took another trick.

“I stand corrected, my dear little bluestocking. Perhaps I should have referred to your esteemed grandparent as Chaos, instead?” She merely laughed and turned her attention back to their game.

A few minutes later, his lordship murmured with mischief, “I apologize, my dear, but it seems my cards are so terrible I must offer you a _carte blanche_.”

Mary's eyebrows rose sharply at that statement, but before she could become too affronted, Dominic laid his cards on the table. He gave her an innocent, wide-eyed look. “Did you think I was making an improper suggestion?”

Mary decided, against her better judgment, to retaliate. “On this particular occasion, you are not being improper - merely unsporting.” As he glared at her in what she hoped was mock outrage, she sweetly explained, “I should have thought you were always one to play your cards as they are dealt.”

Dominic’s expression shifted to one she could not quite read and his tone was oddly rueful. “I always play by the rules, my dear – at least with respect to cards. Your deal, I believe?” As he passed a loose pile of cards across the table to her, his fingertips deliberately brushed hers. Mary’s hands remained steady, but he smiled to himself at the delicate flush on her cheeks.

Vidal’s luck improved, and he cut steadily into Mary’s advantage as the carriage rolled onward. They were closely matched in skill, and if Mary very occasionally lost a trick through an overabundance of caution, she just as often made up for it by thwarting an attempt by the Marquis to overplay his hand.

The players were so engrossed in their match that they remained in the coach while the horses were changed. His lordship even neglected to call for wine, a circumstance so unusual that it caused Mr. Timms and Mr. Fletcher to exchange a meaningful glance.

As they drove through the outskirts of Rouen, Dominic lounged against the squabs, idly watching Mary’s fine-boned hands as she deftly shuffled the cards, and thought that he hadn’t enjoyed a game more since that time last year when he had won several thousand pounds and a promising bay colt off George Cholmondley - even though victory over Mary remained elusive.

When they halted at the inn in Rouen, Dominic gallantly helped her alight from the carriage, continuing to hold her hand even after her feet touched the ground. “Well-played, Mary,” he said, smiling down into her eyes without any of his usual mockery.

She smiled back at him without any of her usual constraint. “Thank you, Dominic, for a most entertaining game. I hope we shall play again.”

He reached into his coat with his free hand and removed a heavy purse, containing far more than the few coins he owed her. “Take your winnings, my dear.” Dominic realized his error almost as soon as the words left his lips.

Mary’s hand stiffened in his, and while her face remained carefully impassive for the benefit of the inn’s servants and his own lackeys loitering in the yard, he could clearly read the mingled scorn and shame in her eyes. “I don’t want your money, _my lord_ ,” she said, softly but very distinctly. Disengaging her hand from his, Mary swept him a low, ironic curtsy and turned sharply on her heel.

Dominic watched her walk away and swore at himself, feeling a pang that had nothing to do with the dull ache in his arm. As her slim form disappeared into the inn, a thought crossed his mind - too swiftly to be analyzed - that perhaps he had been playing for love after all.


End file.
